


ain't you my baby

by tsunderestorm



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Canes, Dom/sub, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-25
Updated: 2019-02-25
Packaged: 2019-11-05 07:48:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17914766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsunderestorm/pseuds/tsunderestorm
Summary: No one knows Akira’s deepest desires like Arsene does, and no one is prepared to set him free of them the way he can.





	ain't you my baby

**Author's Note:**

> Give your heart and soul to charity  
> 'Cause the rest of you, the best of you  
> Honey, belongs to me  
> \- **NFWMB** by Hozier
> 
> Arsene has more horny energy than any other video game monster design I've ever seen. We must pay homage to that. The ending to this is a _little_ rough and rushed, but if I keep nitpicking and overworking it I'll regret it. :') Enjoy ♥

The cane lands on his ass with a sharp slap, and through the burn of the pain and the way his skin prickles as the stripe reddens his skin he thinks _thank you, Arsene_ His anticipation escapes him in a ragged whimper: raw, unfiltered, and loud against the stillness of the room. Usually Akira tries to hide it; to still his body from jerking with the force of the blow, to bite his lip and hold in the sounds that he knows Arsene thrives on...just to tease him. 

“My, what a sound...but I haven’t even stuck you yet, Akira,” Arsene tuts in response, taunting as he kneels behind Akira’s bent form. His silken wings rustle as he arranges himself. He dwarfs Akira no less in this position than when he stands at his back, looming, his long limbs folding gracefully to drape himself over his little master’s back as he presses his masked to the nape of his neck. “That will come later, little thief.”

His words are richly accented and full of promise, making Akira tremble under the weight of them, bow to their power. Arsene isn’t touching him, not yet, but Akira knows that when he does it will be somehow feather-light and heavy-handed all at once, the delicious contradiction that is his rebel soul’s mate. For now, he feels only the echo of the cane that Arsene had magicked out of thin air and into his palm, only the briefest brush of ink-black feathers against his bare skin.

Akira wonders how long he’ll have to wait before Arsene _truly_ touches him. How long before Arsene will reward him with the warm press of his palm, with the stroking of a claw up the line of Akira’s spine. How much longer will he have to wait before Arsene will send him spinning? How long before he feels his sharp-tipped fingers on his skin instead of the warm wood of the cane? How long until the quickly rising bittersweet, aching emptiness inside of him is quelled by Arsene’s cock? It’s so close he can taste it: the sheer, sweet release of it: the moment that every conscious thought it banished from his mind until all that’s left is obedient hunger.

“All it takes is the mere _promise_ of a prick to get you squirming?” Arsene continues smugly, a rich laugh bubbling beneath the lackluster taunt. Maybe - _definitely_ \- Akira thinks; he’s right, maybe all it really takes is the simple reality of knowing what’s in store for him to make him come undone. He hasn’t behaved, he knows; he’s spent day in and day out wound tight as a bowstring worried about this and that and he knows Arsene _doesn’t_ _like that._ When hearts are changed, and wrongs righted, that’s why his other self is still here...to serve as the release Akira’s soul needs: the release he won’t give himself.

Arsene taps the grip of the cane against his hand, the wood making a patient _thwack_ against his open palm. A perfect gentleman, he’d explained as he’d summoned it out of thin air and guided Akira face-down onto his bed, would never be seen without a cane to accompany his handsome top hat.

Akira knows intimately that the cane isn’t for Arsene’s over-the-top aesthetic - it serves another purpose entirely, one known only to the two of them. And here they are, with Akira’s face buried in his pillow and his pants tugged down his thighs, ass high in the air for his persona’s admiration and already displaying the marks of Arsene’s efforts. He has red lines in the shape of thin fingers crisscrossing his thighs, stark like garish paint on a lily-white canvas, a smear of illicit lipstick on a virgin pure skin, and two stripes already risen to the flushed skin of his ass.

“Even a gentleman has his limits before you feel the sting of his cane,” Arsene had said months ago, when this...particular facet of their relationship had come about, the creature’s velveteen voice settling into his belly and lighting something up white-hot inside of him. It coils insidiously from within, licking at him like the flames that glowed within Arsene’s eyes, the flames in his smile split wide across a smooth onyx face.

If his heart yearning to rebel had called out to Arsene in the sea of souls for strength and power, it was his body aching for sweet release that called out to the creature for _this._ For the feel of it - his body weightless and leaden all at once, for the way he can sink somewhere deep inside of himself as his persona works him to dizzying heights, for the pain and pleasure that Arsene’s unique punishment brings.

(Perhaps punishment isn’t the right word - Akira’s never done a true thing wrong in Arsene’s eyes. Quite the opposite, in fact, but it’s for that reason precisely that the creature rewards him with the loss of control he craves so desperately. So contrary to his stubborn rebellion...but, what he wants most in his heart.)

“You are thinking too much,” Arsene chides, and Akira bites his lip as the newest cane strike lands heavy and dulls to a warm ache. Spreading his knees a bit and lowering himself to a more comfortable position down on his elbows arches his back sharp and wanton and his cock rubs against the rumpled bed. He shivers, humping against the balled-up sheets, chasing the friction he isn’t getting and Arsene responds by striking the backs of his thighs again, parallel to the last and sharp as a knife. It leaves a fresh welt and makes his soul sing, a feeling he knows Arsene recognizes from the low, lusty moan the creature lets slip. Akira supposes it shouldn’t sting as much as it does; after all, he always knows the hit is coming, always senses Arsene’s intent and hears the cane slicing through the air. But blissfully, somehow, it always takes him by surprise and hurts in the most delirious way.

He pouts theatrically, wiggling his ass and trying to ignore the fresh sting in his thighs, the hellfire warmth Arsene’s body seems to give off making his balls feel raw and over-sensitive. He’s been bent like this for what seems like forever, face down and ass up on his bed, Morgana carted off by Ann for the night and mercifully alone with Arsene. He’d needed this _bad,_ this disconnect from his mind, and it’s _working._ Every time he thinks of something like the Phantom Thieves, or the Metaverse, or the weapon upgrades he’ll have to shell out thousands of yen for, he’s punished. Arsene can feel every wish in his heart and for everything that isn’t letting himself become jelly-limbed and pliant under Arsene’s powerful hands, the persona strikes him again.

Yet again, the cane cracks down, striking the backs of his thighs rather than his ass and making him lurch forward. It’s more painful like that, and his movement is an involuntary reaction; a momentary respite from the pain even when he craves so much more of it. He grinds his dick against the bed again before righting himself, shamelessly humping down as his dick drools precome on his sheets. His thighs must already be black and blue, he thinks, and they certainly feel like it, but it’s worth it because the tenseness of life that always settles so easily into his body is bleeding out. Slowly, washing off of him like dirt down a drain, his worries are vanishing to be replaced by pleasure, curled tight in his gut and hot in his blood.

Arsene drapes himself over Akira’s back, wings curling around his little master in a cascading waterfall. His feathers are soft when they brush along Akira’s thighs, his hips, along his back as he moves over him, fingers following suit and counting the bumps of his spine. Then Arsene’s hand is around his throat, palm against the nape of his neck as his fingers curl around, the pointed tip of his thumb at the seam of Akira’s mouth. Sharp claws trace the cut of Akira’s jaw, brushing his full lips and mercifully letting him suckle at it. Akira’s eyes slide closed and he immerses himself in the pleasure that rolls through Arsene when he closes his mouth around it.

“Mon beau voleur...mon petit fantôme…” Arsene leans forward as he says it: soft, soothing words, like a lullaby to put a babe to slumber. It lulls Akira into a soft, dreamy place, keeps him balanced on an edge between pleasure and ecstasy, dragging it out in a way that he doesn’t mind. He understands the words - Arsene’s sporadic French is dramatic, but predictable. Handsome thief, little phantom, names he’s given Akira. His voice is level, smooth as velvet. Gone is his rich, throaty laugh and grandiose posturing. There is only the feel of fingers curled around Akira’s neck as he compliments him, never _too_ rough, but there - reminding him that they aren’t done, that he must not be relaxed enough, that the cane is still _there_ if he needs it should he try to do anything but _submit_ once more.

Akira is acutely aware of Arsene’s cock against him, throbbing and hard and _huge_ and he wants it...god, does he want it. He wants it more than the cane across his thighs or the hand around his neck, wants to sink into the deep, peaceful place the creature drags him into when he’s like this, wants to feel Arsene sink into him. Through the fog, he thinks: _I deserve it,_ but he knows better than to beg.

When he’s _ready,_ when he’s relaxed and pliant, Arsene will give him what he wants. When the rebel heart hell-bent on action and control becomes the most obedient of marionettes hungry to be controlled, Arsene will let him have it. Arsene can tell, Arsene _knows_ because he is inside of his mind, inside of his heart, his _soul_ ; there is no one who knows Akira’s unique brand of submission more than he does.

“You’re so well-behaved now, Akira…” he praises, tongue licking along the bumps of the boy’s spine as he drapes himself over him, huge and imposing. He rolls his hips to rub his cock against him, to give him a taste of what he’s craving and the harsh fabric of his pants grates against the bruised welts. Akira could cry, it’s so good. “Enough running wild for this rebel, _non?_ ”

Akira could come just from this; he has before. He nods, sniffling as he presses his face into the pillow. Arsene trails claws down his back, sparing the briefest tease over his hole on display before he strokes his thighs, following the path of the cane’s welts. “You’re so close to it now, just on the cusp of letting go. The world will still need you when I am done with you, but let’s forget about it for now...”

For these brief moments of blissful nothingness, Akira is willing to forget. Arsene dispels the cane with a flick of his wrist and a sound of rushing air, laughing low. He can sense Akira’s decision, feel the relief of consent wash over him like a wave. “You’ve done well, Akira…” He praises him gratuitously, spoiling him, feeding him compliments like delicate morsels from his fingertips, a contented kitten.

The way Arsene says his name is intense. Usually he just calls him _boy_ or _little thief,_ endearments in their way but somehow less personal than a real and true _name._ Akira wants it more than he’s ever wanted it before, wants the white-hot pleasure sizzling like a live wire down his spine and his eyes squeezed so tightly shut there are galaxies behind his lids, wants Arsene to drag him down into the place where nothing matters but them.

Arsene kneels to kiss each welt, running his tongue along the stripes, moving to run the tip of his tongue over Akira’s hole to taste the musky tang of him. Akira moans softly, hole fluttering under Arsene’s tongue, hands fisting in the sheets as he whimpers. He doesn’t speak (he doesn’t need to) but Arsene knows he doesn’t need to tease him.

Even just the tip of Arsene’s tongue spreads Akira wide and makes pleasure curl up his spine. Arsene chuckles against his skin, clawed hands making Akira’s thighs seem minuscule in their grip, holding him steady as his tongue circles the tight opening before thrusting inside. His thumbs trace the angry red welts his cane had left, delighting in the way Akira moans and the way it ripples through him in turn.

His tongue keeps coming, and coming…god, it’s so long, burning him in the sweetest way as it stretches his hole around the hot, wet muscle. Arsene chuckles against him, curling the end of his _obscenely_ long tongue and licking somewhere so deep inside Akira feels it in his _soul_. The moan that tumbles from his lips is more like a quiet sob, half-muffled into the pillow as he hangs his head. The stinging in his thighs has dulled to a pleasurable warmth, settling in under Arsene’s hands...how he manages to go from the greedy, possessive drag of claws to this gentle, almost _soothing_ way he’s massaging the aches and pains his cane had caused as he’s tonguing his ass open is beyond Akira, far past comprehension for a mind that’s already dulled fuzzy with lust.

All he knows is that he never wants it to stop.

He rocks back against the creature and earns a pleased, low rumble as Arsene’s tongue slithers deeper, surely halfway into his guts by now, somehow too much and not enough all at once. “Arsene... _please_ ,” Akira mumbles, words whisper-soft like he’s half asleep, slurring like he’s drunk. “Need more…”

His balls are hot and tight, dick so hard it hurts between his splayed-open thighs and every time Arsene’s tongue pressed in his masked face bumps against them, a barely-there pressure that still makes him writhe. “Need it,” he repeats. Quietly, sweetly, more Akira and less Joker, the sweet, submissive student rather than the take-charge Phantom Thief: two delicious sides of one pretty, polished coin.

Arsene speaks with his heart and soul rather than his mouth; rich, deep voice echoing across their minds. _I know_. He doesn’t stop, though, just continues thrusting his tongue in and out of Akira’s ass, slow and steady and the fact that he even has enough tongue to truly _fuck him with it_ is insane.

Arsene pulls back slowly, lapping at Akira’s slack hole and making it flutter under his tongue, chuckling as he palms his cock. There is no clothing between them, no zipper or fly or set of buttons, only the cognition of clothing that is at one moment there and the next moment gone and Arsene is glad for it as he takes his cock in his hand. It’s heavy, he thinks as he watches Akira’s hand fist into the bedsheets, letting him share what he’s feeling as the dull edge of his claw thumbs over the tip that’s shiny with excitement, pearls of precome almost poetically pretty against the flesh black as pitch.

Arsene doesn’t ask Akira if he’s ready, because Akira wouldn’t even answer. He can feel it from him, lust radiating off of him like heat from a fire, lighting up that which binds them like a live wire. He’s desperate, needy, so deep down beneath his own desires that he’d do anything Arsene wanted - because, after all, what Akira wants is what Arsene wants, isn’t it? They are one and the same, two halves of a whole, even if Arsene has grown into something more than a persona, something more visceral and tantalizingly unique.

Akira’s hole is shiny with spit, fluttering prettily with every shaky inhale and exhale and the lube that Arsene drizzles makes him look sloppy-slick, dripping down his balls before Arsene can press it inside. His claw leaves a thin welt even when he’s gentle, running it down Akira’s spine and the dimples on his back, the pad of his finger pressed against the plush clutch of his hole. His little thief trembles when Arsene’s hand presses a hand to the small of his back, the pointed tip of his cock leaving sticky smears as it catches on the inviting flesh.

Akira is normally loud - a feisty, rebellious lover eager to prove himself and take his pleasure, always ready with a snarky comment or a gleeful moan...except with Arsene, except when he’s like _this_. Now, he barely makes a noise beyond a sigh of relief when Arsene breaches him, spreading him slow. It’s dizzying for both of them: the warm, slick clutch of Akira’s body sucking Arsene deeper; the sweet burn of Arsene’s thick cock making Akira forget everything else but him, but _this_. Arsene hooks an arm under his little thief’s chest, feels the warmth of his skin and the sweat of lust against his claw-tipped fingers and pulls him up against him. Back to chest and clutched tight, Arsene’s hand flat against his belly seems huge, fingers stroking the base of his cock as Akira sinks onto his.

All of Arsene seems huge in comparison - Akira is _so_ strikingly small as Arsene lifts him, settling onto his knees and hooking his hands under Akira’s thighs. He wishes he could see the two of them together; Akira splayed wide with his thick, dark cock stretching him open, head lolled back on Arsene’s shoulder. He knows he must be beautiful: his pale, naked back to Arsene’s broad chest, the bumps of his spine lining up with the brilliant red lacings of Arsene’s’ coat. Slotting together, meant to be - two halves of the same soul...poetic. Akira is humming with pleasure, Arsene can hear; can feel the vibrations in his human lover’s throat as he nuzzles against it. A gratifying little sound, content and needy all at once...almost a purr. _This_ is Arsene’s master, his little gold-hearted rebel with a mischievous streak, lasciviously spread and languid in his lap and he’d have it no other way.

There is nothing in Akira’s mind, and it’s blissful. Normally it’s loud, filled with a million different thoughts diverting into pathways more complicated than their Tokyo home’s most complicated maze-like map of neighborhoods but now...there’s nothing. His mind is blank, softened by a haze of pleasure that’s settled in heavy and it washes over Arsene like waves on a beach - he feels each white-hot zing of rapture that lights Akira’s every nerve on fire. Arsene gives him a moment to adjust to the intrusion, the sheer girth of his cock even at its smallest point stretching him impossibly wide but Akira is limp in his embrace, sinking onto him as his body goes lax in Arsene’s arms.

Like a doll _,_ Arsene remarks wordlessly, the silent sentiment loud and deafening in Akira’s mind. Content to be toyed with.

Akira gives a drowsy half-nod of agreement as his head lolls back onto Arsene’s shoulder. Slowly, sluggishly he turns to nuzzle against the smooth cravat tied at Arsene’s throat, lips ghosting over the smooth metal prongs clutching the jewel clasped there. He drags a hand down his chest and belly, giving his cock a greedy squeeze before he clasps Arsene’s hand loosely, as affectionate as he can muster when he can’t think clearly. Arsene guides Akira’s hand back to his own cock, flushed dark and bobbing against his belly with every shift of his body, guiding the curl of his fist and the slide of his grip, making him touch himself.

Akira needs this, Arsene reasons, as he grinds his palm atop Akira’s hand on his cock, his own giving a neglected twinge as it aches to be deeper still inside of Akira. His hand covers it completely it in a way that makes the both of them dizzy, fingers overlapping as they curl around it, pointed claw thumbing gingerly over the head as his little thief’s hips roll into the touch. Arsene steals the moment to impale him further, hips snapping up to give him _more_ , to stretch Akira wider, to fill him deeper. When he glances down, his dick is so deep inside of Akira that his belly seems full and bloated with it and Arsene can’t help the low, lustful moan that he growls right into Akira’s ear. He’s so full it’s tangible, a soft bulge when Arsene switches his hold so he can support Akira with one hand, palm gliding across his swollen belly.

Akira needs to forget his woes and worries, push to the back of his mind the sense of justice that propels him so righteously forward and get out of his own head for once...in favor of an escape. Luckily, an escape is something a gentleman thief can provide...eagerly, at that - what true gentleman would resist as passionate a prize as Akira when his very soul begs out _please, please_? A gentleman, even a demon, would never keep a suitor waiting...and so an escape is what Arsene offers.

As much as a rope thrown out a high-up window or an act of vanishing in the swirl of a cape, he can set him free from his shackles. A pretty enough prisoner the boy makes even with chains tightened around his heart, but a bird blessed with freedom will sing prettily compared to one confined to a cage.

Akira’s lashes flutter like the wings of butterflies against his cheeks, dewy with the teardrops that every strike of Arsene’s cane had coaxed out of his stormy eyes, and his rabbit heart is beating rapid-fire against his rib cage. Arsene can hear it, _feel_ it - Akira is his, after all, and they’re connected by something deeper, something intrinsic and intense. His little master is in his arms and far away - somewhere beyond this cognition of his attic bedroom he’s created, beyond the Metaverse, beyond all of the worlds that weave between the two - somewhere that is only for them, somewhere where the pleasure builds and builds until it’s too much for both of them.

Arsene had known Akira wasn’t going to last long... he’s been hovering on the edge of an orgasm since the first time Arsene’s cane had struck his thighs, and there’s honestly no way he’d rather have it. Akira climaxes with a shiver, come splattering his milky chest and Arsene’s brilliant red gloves. Arsene feels it: the sharp _snap_ of a bowstring stretched too tight, the sigh of relief Akira’s very soulseems to give when his muscles go lax and he’s limp and satiated in his arms.

They come almost in unison - two halves of a whole soul, after all - and he heaves out a choked moan when Arsene spills inside, uncomfortably full as the come bloats his tender belly with it. It’s far too much for a human boy...even one as powerful as a wild card, as one who has broken his chains and mastered everything. His softening cock twitches at the sensation and Arsene laughs, low and amused, his balls still throbbing with his recent climax as he shifts Akira’s weight, a tingle traveling down his spine as Akira’s body releases its hold on him, his cock pulling out with an obscene, wet sound. He can feel his own come dripping out of that slack little space he’s so recently occupied onto the fine leather of his glove, holding him more like a bride than a hole to be fucked.

“Yes...not so wild now, Akira.”

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [twitter](twitter.com/tsunderestorm) if you'd like. ♥


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